


overturn the violence

by Joana789



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Character Study, Established Relationship, Future Fic, M/M, POV Andrew Minyard, Post-Canon, Relationship Study, they're in love what can i say
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-04
Updated: 2019-01-04
Packaged: 2019-10-04 09:13:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17301896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Joana789/pseuds/Joana789
Summary: Because the thing is — people assume Andrew lets the world happen to him, and is violent in response because he’s not able to be soft. Doesn’t want to be.They’re all wrong.





	overturn the violence

**Author's Note:**

> andrew: *carries knives everywhere he goes, basically hates everyone, dangerous af*  
> me: look at this Soft Boy :')
> 
>  
> 
> just a quick thing, because i can't stop writing gentle boyfriends

 

Pushing people away is easy. Keeping everyone at arm’s length, staying away from the touch. Andrew avoids physical contact when he can, reacts when it inevitably happens, lets the violence curling in his veins snap like a rubber band. It’s something that needs to be done. Something Andrew does. Not a habit, but a mechanism — it hasn’t been under his skin from the begging, but it surfaced eventually, right in the middle of every sordid thing Andrew’s been through and at the end of them all, too.

People look at Andrew and see brutality, think of him and picture a fight, a pattern of _defend, push back, stay away_ , and Andrew doesn’t care about it enough to correct them. It is a fair point to make, with everything he’s done and everything he’s capable of.

There are very few people who look at him and see something else, something more. One person in particular.

  
*

  
Here’s how it is — Neil holds Andrew’s hand in public, not caring about the unwanted attention, and wears Andrew’s jersey instead of his own because he thinks he’s being funny and sometimes uploads photos of the two of them to social media. He has an infuriating habit of staring at Andrew without a good reason to. Andrew used to tell him to stop, years ago, but now just ignores it.

He lets it happen. Doesn’t deny that Neil means something to him, and that he means something to Neil in return. For people like them, who had to scrape and fight for every single thing in their lives, it’s—a lot. Andrew thinks about words like _love_ and _affection_ and they still don’t mean a thing to him, but then thinks about Neil’s careful gestures and smiles that are bright like sunlight and rare like a shooting star and something in his chest blooms. He pushes it down, most of the time, but it’s there, simmering in his veins and throbbing in his ribcage.

 _Love_ and _affection_ don’t mean anything, but Andrew has always been good at promises. This is his.

  
*

  
The thing is — Neil might be the one to reach out, but it is Andrew who lets go last. Neil asks _yes or no_ first, but it’s Andrew who first pulls him into the kiss. It’s an admission that used to make Andrew’s skin crawl and now is just a part of the way things are.

Andrew holds Neil’s hand when they’re sitting on the couch watching TV, runs his fingers through Neil’s hair when they’re both in bed, on the verge of sleep. Presses his hands to all the scars edged into Neil’s body, learns them by heart again and again; presses his lips to the freckles littering his face and memorizes those, too. Andrew takes every stupid, little thing Neil has ever told him and tucks it away in a safe place in his memory, not because he has to, but because he chooses to, for once. Sometimes, when Neil smiles at him in the mornings, Andrew lets himself look at it just a moment longer than necessary.

Because the thing is — people assume Andrew can’t be gentle. That he lets the world happen to him, and is violent in response because he’s not able to be soft. Doesn’t want to be.

They’re all wrong.

  
*

  
Bee comes to visit, one time. Sits on the couch in Andrew’s apartment, a mug of hot chocolate in her hands. Andrew sits opposite of her. It’s a well-known scene, but in a different time and a different setting, a weird twist of reality. Andrew thinks the whole ordeal is very close to looking a bit stupid, but it’s Bee, so it doesn’t.

They talk, and it feels different, too, but not in a bad way. Bee tries to play with the cats, but they ignore her, and Andrew watches as Sir goes over to him instead, winds around his legs, lies down by his feet. They talk about the neighborhood, and how the games have been going, and how Aaron texted Andrew last week and Renee sent him a Christmas card, the last person on the planet to still do so. It’s pinned to the fridge, right next to an ugly polaroid of King that Nicky took months ago before flying back to Germany.

”Andrew,” Bee says, later, as she’s gathering her things and putting on her coat, in a lieu of a goodbye. Andrew looks at the wrinkles around her eyes when she smiles. ”You look happy. I’m glad.”

And, see — they talked about it during some of the sessions, a lifetime ago. About how Andrew doesn’t care about that. About how happy and miserable are things meant for other people, not for him. That they are a luxury, and a privilege, because you have to be able to care about them before you recognize what they are, and Andrew’s none of that. That’s what he said, back then.

Andrew thinks about it for a while.

  
*

  
It’s not that he’d learned something, along the way when he wasn’t paying attention. Nothing slipped past his defenses and made a home behind his sternum, or in the back of his head. Nobody taught him anything, either, because Andrew never wanted to be taught. And yet.

He presses his chest to Neil’s back under the covers and lets his skin take in the warmth, lets it seep into the marrow of his bones. Holds him on the bad days and the bad nights, lets Neil hold him on his own, talk him through it if physical contact is too much. Kisses him in the car before they get to the stadium, because he wants to keep it personal, close to his chest, just for the two of them to see. It’s irrational, and unreasonable, like a fever dream, except this is real. The idea of it still makes his chest ache, stupidly.

 _Foolish_ , he thinks to himself at times, barely half of a notion, presses his lips to Neil's, to the corner of his mouth, to his jaw or his temple, wherever, just because he can. Then he thinks, _enamored_.

Andrew never thought he was capable of feeling so much, yet there he is, young and infatuated and soft against all odds, because the world forced him to become violent, but then Andrew chose to be something else. His ribcage feels too small for it, sometimes, for the quiet eruption he’s still reluctant to dwell on but maybe will, one day. Neil smiles at him for the whole world to see and Andrew turns his face away, but not before committing the smile to memory.

Andrew touches him almost like he’s scared, sometimes, except it’s not fear that makes the touch gentle. It’s something else. They both know better.

The rest of the world doesn’t have to.

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr](http://ohandrews.tumblr.com)   
>  [twitter](https://twitter.com/thisbitcch1)


End file.
